


Forty Years of Snowfall (won't heal an ancient forest)

by fenella



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Because have you seen Louis' glutes and hamstrings?? No one else can jump like Tommo, CANADIAN FIGURE SKATING AU, Harry is a Vancouver hippy who grew and couldn't land his jumps to save a life, Harry is the COMEBACK KID, Liam is a hometown NHL hero who Zayn is not so secretly pining for, Louis is Canada's Sweetheart after the 2010 Olympics in Vancouver, Louis is pretty in everything, Louis is pretty in sequins, Louis is pretty in velour, Louis is the best, M/M, Niall is just awesome, Niall loves being a figure skater more than all the other figure skaters, OMG I really just want someone else to write this, They're all so tiny, Which is why figure skating is the perfect sport for 1D, Zayn is an Ice Dancer from Montreal
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-03
Updated: 2014-07-03
Packaged: 2018-02-07 08:33:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1892325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fenella/pseuds/fenella
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ten days out of ten, Louis looks better than anyone else in velour.  Canadian Figure Skating AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Forty Years of Snowfall (won't heal an ancient forest)

Louis Tomlinson is the best goddamn figure skater in the world.  
  
Louis has last year's world title, the Olympic medal, and the best parking spot at Cowell High Performace. He also has a legion of young sequin-clad Evgeni Plushenkos nipping at his heels, but nine days out of ten that's not even a noteworthy concern. Ten days out of ten, Louis looks better than anyone else in velour.  
  
Fine, okay. He looks better than everyone whose name is not Zayn Malik. But Zayn is an _Ice Dancer_ , and he's basically a Vogue model on skates. Zayn has more artistry in his pinky than Louis has managed to acquire in seventeen years of off-ice dance training and listening to Brahms before bedtime. But whatever.  
  
Louis Tomlinson is the best _male singles_ figure skater in the world. He is disciplined, and focused, and thrives on adrenaline. Which is why he doesn't waver or flinch as comes out of his spin in training, his blade slicing into the ice, and his eyes land on the young man across the rink. The boy is standing on the other side of the boards, skates looped casually over a bulky, cable knit sweater. As if they're at some pedestrian, turn of the century pond to play crack the whip, not the most prestigious figure skating club in all of Canada.  
  
There's a moment of silence, Louis' ears ringing, and then Katy's slightly hysterical voice pierces the air, layering itself over Louis' heavy breathing and heart pounding from exertion. In an irrational, dizzy moment, Louis thinks that he's going to spend the rest of his life associating a Harry Styles induced chasm of panic with Katy's sharp, disembodied voice. _No Niall, you may absolutely not skate to Justin Bieber. Not until you've brought me an Olympic Medal.  
  
_ Harry, under the weight of Louis' scrutiny, quirks the corner of his mouth upwards in a friendly smile. Which is obviously Louis' cue to snap out of it.  
  
"Hey Tommo," shouts Niall. Louis is too happy to turn away from Harry, towards his friend. "Can I borrow Goldie? Katy says I can skate to Justin if I bring her an Olympic Medal."  
  
Louis throws his head back and laughs. "Sure Neil," he answers, waggling his eyebrows. "Who am I to stand between you and JB. Or I mean, _just shout whenever and I'll be there_."  
  
Katy makes a sound of frustrated outrage and turns towards Paul. Her body language says 'See what I have to deal with, _see_? _'  
  
_ "Tomlinson," barks Simon, and Louis turns on autopilot towards his coach's voice. Harry Styles is settling into the bleachers beside Simon like a spider, unwelcome house-guest that he is, folding his long legs into the row of seats. "Do it again, and this time properly. You need more speed."  
  
"Okay," answers Louis, his mouth tugging into a determined line. He manages to wink at Harry before turning away to skate down the length of the ice, fighting not to let his legs take him far, far away. He takes a deep breathe, and relaxes his hands, curled into fists at his side. After a few strides, Louis loses himself in the even, practiced strokes of his blades against the ice. He is, after all, the best single mens skater who showed up to compete for the World Championships last year.  
  
By time he skates back over to Simon for feedback, Harry is gone. Simon doesn't offer an explanation for the younger boy's presence, and Louis doesn't ask. Harry Styles is irrelevant to Louis' training.  
  
 _*  
  
_ Zayn is awake and out of bed before Louis. This, the fact that Zayn is banging on Louis' door at quarter after five in the morning, is the first sign of trouble. In all the years they've shared a small, cramped apartment, Louis can count on one hand the number of times that Zayn has gotten up before Louis.  
  
"Eh, Lou," says Zayn from the hallway. "I don't believe for a second that you're still asleep. Get up bro, it's late. Simon is going to murder you if you're not at the rink in a half hour. Or worse, he'll call you to discuss life choices."  
  
Louis whimpers, and burrows deeper under his duvet. He curls instinctively around the warmth of his laptop. He presses the replay button on the latest video he's loaded - partly because it drowns out Zayn's voice, but mostly because he's really that much of a masochist.  
  
Somewhere, from beyond the barrier of Louis' warm bed, Zayn continues his assault with a barrage of insults. "You're such a shit, Lou. I don't know why I bother. I made you tea, but I'm going to dump it down the sink and you'll have to drink the other half of my smoothie instead."  
  
Louis whines involuntarily; his morning tea is sacred, and Zayn's smoothies are a disgusting colour of green. They even taste green. A washed out green like plant fibres, wilting lettuce and Saint Patrick's Day. Not a deep, rich green like Harry Styles' eyes. Shit. Not an acceptable train of thought.  
  
There's a brief moment of respite from Zayn and then a resolute "Okay, that's it, I'm coming in."  
  
Louis is just barely awake enough to earmark that this is not going to end well. There will be endless mocking. Humiliation for years, maybe the rest of his life. But before Louis has a chance to do anything about his impending future of shame, Zayn is ripping away his blankets with a wholly unnecessary violence.  
  
"Aha!" says Zayn, vindicated. "I knew you were awake!"  
  
It takes a moment for Zayn to register the muffled, tinny music coming from Louis' laptop, the familiar Shania Twain vocals line-dancing into the room. Zayn's eyes narrow in distaste. "Please tell me that you are not watching Harry Styles' exhibition program from Junior Nationals."  
  
Louis attempts a feeble smile. "I'm not watching Harry Styles' exhibition program from Junior Nationals."  
  
"Liar."  
  
"Jerkface."  
  
Zayn considers him warily. He's clearly debating if he can detach Louis from the computer without losing a finger. "How much sleep have you had?"  
  
"Ennnnh."  
  
Zayn pinches the bridge of his nose, making him look approximately forty years old. "Louis," he begins plaintively. "Harry has been here for less than twenty-four hours, and you've been up all night watching footage of his tragically short career."  
  
Louis makes a dying sound. "Thank you for stating the obvious, champ."  
  
Zayn snorts. "Awww, is the four time national champion scared of ickle Harry Styles?"  
  
Louis sits bolt upright in bed, his outrageous bedhead making Zayn bite back a grin. "Thought so."  
  
"I hate you," says Louis by way of thanks. "And I hate that stupid Vancouver hipster Styles. I bet he eats kale for breakfast."  
  
Zayn pats Louis on the shoulder, in what he probably thinks is a comforting manner. It's not. "Perrie and I are in the gym this morning, and then have choreography in the studio this afternoon. I'll see you tonight. Try not to let the mouse win, little Lion King."  
  
Louis throws a pillow after Zayn's retreating back. "I don't even know what that means! You sound like my high-school English teacher who had the fashion sense of a colour-blind duck! I hope you trip on a twizzle!"  
  
Even making fun of Zayn's ice dancing proves less satisfying than usual, and Louis crumples, left alone with the sinking feeling that he's fucked to hell.  
  
"Everything the light touches will be yours!" comes Zayn's floating voice before the front door bangs shut.  
  
Louis turns his face sideways, eyes sweeping across his bedroom. Their apartment is small, tucked above Easy Laundry and Louis' window faces onto Main Street. The early morning sun just barely trickles into his bedroom, mixing with the artificial light from Louis' laptop. If Louis is Simba in this scenario, his kingdom isn't much at all. Louis takes the time to scream into one of his pillows, before collecting himself like the mature, seasoned athlete that he is.  
  
*  
  
Louis is feeling much calmer, though heavy with exhaustion, after his morning session on the ice. His body is well trained, so he performs to Simon's satisfaction despite the sleep deprivation. He spends another hour look at video playback with Simon and Julian, chirping their approval and disappointment by turns, until his brain reaches its capacity for information.  
  
By the time that Louis has moved onto the gym, to spend some quality time on the stationary bike, he's all but forgotten about Harry Styles. Only standing halfway between the door and the bikes is, of course, Harry Styles.  
  
It's not like Harry is looming in Louis' way, or his presence is in any way meant to intersect with Louis at all. He's actually standing in the middle of the gym, frowning sullenly at a Bosu ball. Which Louis would find endearing, were it not for the appalling floral headscarf tied around Harry's head.  
  
"It's not going to bite you," says Louis from the doorway, so as not to startle the other boy.  
  
Harry's head swings round to Louis, eyes widening. "What- oh. I've already fallen off it twice." His words are slow, and much deeper than Louis had anticipated. Harry pulls back one sleeve to reveal a bruise that's already dancing impressive purple patterns across his forearm and - is that a tattoo?  
  
Louis shakes his head sharply, to stop the room from spinning. "You're a menace. I'm surprised you're allowed in here unsupervised."  
  
One corner of Harry's mouth quirks upwards. "You could supervise me."  
  
"Sorry, love. I've got a hot date."  
  
Harry's face closes over, and Louis feels as if he's kicked a puppy. Carefully he adds, "With that bike over there in the corner."  
  
"Oh," says Harry.   
  
"Yeah," answers Louis, his voice curling into kindness. His instinct is to be helpful, which he hates. He moves slowly towards Harry, unsettled by how far back he has to tilt his head to make eye-contact. Harry Styles is much, much taller and broader than the young athlete he used to watch from a distance. Or from this morning, in bed.  
  
Harry shifts awkwardly in the silence, holding out his hand. "Er, I'm Harry, by the way," he says, and Louis is forced to bite back a laugh. Harry looks at him apprehensively, and Louis wants to smooth away the worry lines that crawl across Harry's face.  
  
"I know who you are, idiot."  
  
Harry shrugs. "I dunno. It's been awhile."  
  
Louis eyebrows inch upwards, and he can't stop himself from teasing. "Honestly, a few years. It's not as though you've been at sea for decades." He enjoys the flush that spreads across Harry's cheeks.  
  
"Oh Lieutenant Styles," continues Louis, batting his eyes. "I thought you'd never come home from the wars."  
  
"I see you think _you_ need no introduction," comments Harry dryly.  
  
Louis sways his hips a little as he goes on in a falsetto, "These long, hard years have aged you, Lieutenant Styles. I hope that the familiar comforts of home can provide solace from the horrible things you have no doubt seen."  
  
"Shut up," says Harry. His smile is blinding.  
  
"Your unwillingness to discuss your time at war is an obvious cry for help. If you need someone to listen, I will be over there, by those newfangled bicycle contraptions. With my ageless beauty."  
  
"Christ, shut up."  
  
Louis grins maniacally. "The trickiest part is getting on and off the ball."  
  
Harry licks his lips. "Huh?" he asks, after a moment, his eyes stalling on Louis' face.  
  
Louis nods towards the upside down Bosu ball. He places his left running shoe on the flat platform, shifts his body weight forward and then adds his right foot, too. From there, he shuffles his feet apart and does a deep squat for good measure. Down, up. His hands are clasped in front of him, and the Bosu is deadly still.  
  
Then Louis picks up one foot, extends it backwards and pivots from the hips in an easy T-bend.  
  
"Show off," mutters Harry with a lopsided grin.  
  
"Nah," says Louis, jumping off the Bosu with a bit of a spin for added effect. If he wasn't showing off before, he is now. "My centre of gravity is just lower. You've got more-" he gestures vaguely at Harry's height, tries not to swallow. "-to work with."  
  
He holds out his hands encouragingly, and after a beat Harry uses them for stability as he steps one foot onto the Bosu, trying to imitate Louis' fluid movements. Louis pretends not to notice the way Harry's grip tightens when he adds the other foot.  
  
Harry is a quick study, he is an elite athlete after all. Was an elite athlete? Is trying to be an even more elite athlete? Louis hasn't asked for the details, and isn't about to start. Once Harry can be trusted not to fall off the Bosu, Louis retreats to the bike in the furthest corner of the gym. The corner with a window, where Louis can pretend he's not checking out Harry in the reflection.  
  
Louis cranks up the resistance, and has a hard time getting his pulse to settle at his usual rate until Harry leaves the gym.  
  
*  
  
Louis loves the early morning light. The five minute drive from his apartment to Niall's house, the winding roads and the crackle of early morning radio are a comforting routine and he's accountable to no one but himself.  
  
As he pulls up the dirt road towards Bobby Horan's farm, he can see an orange light flick on in the upstairs window. That would be Niall just rolling out of bed, then. Resigned for a wait, Louis puts his groaning Camry into park and turns off the ignition. Rick Astley's voice cuts off in the middle of telling Louis what he's never going to do; Nick Grimshaw, the one man media empire in Meaford, New Brunswick, has been on a bit of an '80s kick.  
  
Louis sighs, and melts back into his seat. He nearly jumps out of his skin when a large figure appears at the passenger side window, tapping on the glass.  
  
"Morning," says Harry Styles in that slow, morbid tone he has, when Louis leans across ton unlock the manual latch on the passenger-side door.  
  
"Fucking Hell," answers Louis.  
  
Harry quirks an eyebrow. "Nice to see you too. Um, shotgun? If that's okay?"  
  
Louis shrugs one shoulder. "You're staying with Niall?" He hopes it sounds like he's making conversation, and not that he is overly invested in Harry's housing arrangements. Because he's not.  
  
Harry's mouth quirks upwards. "Yep, the Horans are stellar."  
  
Louis makes a sweeping gesture at his rusting sedan. "In that case, your chariot awaits."  
  
Harry climbs into the front seat, his legs arranging themselves around a large gym bag, and pulls the door shut. It's too quiet, and Louis puts his hands on the steering wheel for something to do. Harry steals sideways glances at the other boy, as if Louis is an unpredictable, wild animal.  
  
"Thanks for the ride, 's nice of you," says Harry.  
  
Louis grips the steering wheel harder to stop himself from doing something wild and unpredictable, like patting Harry's knee. "Niall needs to get his license,"  he says, moodily. The words die in Louis' throat, as Harry opens up the glove compartment, the door falling against his knees.  
  
It's weird and overly familiar behaviour. Or maybe Harry is snooping for Louis' deepest secrets. As if Louis would keep those in his glove compartment. Ha.  "Are you going to try to sell me insurance?"  
  
Harry gives him a wry look, and Louis is struck by the sudden, obvious realization that nineteen year old Harry Styles is not fifteen year old Harry Styles. Louis isn't sure if this is a good thing, or a bad thing. But Louis is undecided on many other hot button issues, too.  
  
"I'd like to learn how to drive," says Harry, as he rummages.  
  
"Oh," says Louis. "I could teach you, if you want."  
  
"Not if your car is uninsured." Harry bites back a grin.  
  
Louis sticks out his tongue. "That's not. You're putting words in my mouth." His brain goes into overdrive when Harry's eyes flick over to Louis mouth and linger. Louis continues to ramble, it's comforting. As long as stupid words are coming out of his mouth, he can't be saying anything stupider. "Well you can just walk, then, if you're going to insult my car."  
  
Harry just smiles and says "Aha! I knew I'd find something good." He's waving a CD in a battered case, to the side of Louis' line of sight. It says _Tunezzzz_ in sharpie, Louis handwriting.  
  
"Louis. Lou," says Harry, overcome with delighted excitement. "What's on here, Lou? Let me guess. Ummm, Britney Spears. Savage Garden. Destiny's Child."  
  
This Harry Styles is much worse than Harry Styles at fifteen, decides Louis, he's such an overgrown child. Louis just shakes his head.  
  
Harry slides the CD into the car's dinosaur audio system and reaches over to turn on the ignition before Louis can catch up. The small car is filled with the warm hum of string lines soaring together and apart. Louis' breath hitches with affection and adrenaline, the way it always does when he hears the first movement of Mendelssohn's Octet.  
  
Even with the music, Louis hears Harry's soft exhale. Can feel Harry's eyes on him, shining with something Louis doesn't care to examine.  
  
"You were incredible," says Harry quietly, a minute later. His hands are folded together, the picture of propriety. "I was there in Vancouver. In the arena, I mean, watching."  
  
Louis turns to see the emotions chasing across Harry's face. Louis' own memories of the Vancouver Olympics - of being on the ice alone, sharing the win with his entire country - are intensely personal. And somehow he can't help but feel that those memories, if from a slightly different angle, mean just as much to Harry. They shouldn't, it was Louis' win.  
  
Louis reaches out and traces his thumb lightly over the back of Harry's hand. Harry turns, and there's a moment where Louis is convinced that they've both stopped breathing. The backseat door is ripped open, and Louis snatches his hand back.  
  
"Hey mofos," says Niall, interrupting the delicate balance. He takes a split second to stare from Louis to Harry, and then wrinkle his nose at the music. "I'm up for reliving Tommo's Magic Moment any day of the week," offers Niall. "But not before coffee, yeah?"  
  
Louis laughs. "I thought you said you 'never wanted to hear them scratchy fiddles again'."  
  
Niall pretends to consider. "Nah, maybe I'll skate to it next time. I'll take you down with your own programme. Horan for Sochi 2014, yeah? I'll single-white-female you so hard."  
  
Harry giggles, honest to goodness _giggles_ , and Louis spares a sideways glance for him before launching into a tirade of insults at Niall.  
  
When Niall reaches forward to tickle Louis into submission, Harry gives Niall a stern look. "Hey, no attacking the driver," he says.  
  
Niall gives them both dark looks. "Traitor," he sniffs at Harry.  
  
Louis gives Harry a fond smile.  
  
"He can stay," Louis tells Niall. "You can keep him. Styles can stay."  
  
The happy smile that Harry gives him in return is electric.  
  
*  
  
It's Louis and Zayn's turn to host Friday TV night. To be fair, every week is their turn to host TV night. Niall shows up with a basketball tucked under one arm, and a bucket of chocolate ice cream carried by the other. He's wearing a shirt with a prominent cat vomiting a rainbow. Harry shows up with a bowl of quinoa salad, and Louis threatens to throw it out the window.  
  
"Dirty west coast hipster," complains Louis, loudly. "Take your beanie and never darken these doors again."  
  
Harry peers down at Louis. "You're in a good mood."  
  
Zayn pushes past Louis and welcomes Harry into the foyer. "Ignore him. He always gets like this when I overrule mac and cheese."  
  
Harry shrugs. "Should I point out that he's the one wearing hipster glasses?"  
  
Zayn pretends to consider. "Better not. He might try to poison our post-dinner snacks."  
  
Louis pouts. "I'm right here. Why do you all hate me so much? Is it because I'm pretty?"  
  
Harry fingers are light on Louis' waist, as they brush by each other in the hallway. Louis considers that he's imagined the brief contact altogether.  
  
*  
  
Harry Styles is a snuggler. He's wrapped around Niall in a  downright unseemly manner, so Louis feels it's only right that he inserts himself between them on the sofa. In the name of propriety and good manners. He's careful not to spill any of his tea.  
  
Niall and Harry both make room for him easily, though Zayn watches the antics with a raised eyebrow.  
  
"Your face will freeze that way," offers Louis pointedly.  
  
Harry, meanwhile, has wasted no time in repositioning himself, using Louis as his new pillow. His head is dangerously close to Louis' tea.  
  
"What kind of tea is that?" asks Harry curiously, his voice slower and rougher than normal. As if he'd been in the middle of a nap. "Smells good."  
  
"Apricot," says Louis, once his brain processes the question.  
  
"Black tea?"  
  
"Mm, yeah," agrees Louis.  
  
"Can I?"  
  
Louis presses the cup into Harry's hands without hesitation, surprising even himself. He turns to look guiltily at first Zayn, then Niall. They're watching him cautiously, with identical gaping mouths.  
  
"Who's got the remote?" asks Louis tightly. "Six episodes of  Breaking Bad aren't going to watch themselves, eh boys?"  
  
All four sets of eyes turn to face the TV screen, and if either Zayn of Niall notice Louis' arm settle over Harry's shoulders (or his fingers tracing slow patterns into Harry's sweater) they think better than to make something of it.  
  
*  
  
Niall is snoring on the couch by the time that Harry follows Louis into his bedroom, in search of pajamas. It's normal for Niall to stay the night on Friday. Zayn is always the first to leave the TV binge, retreating to his room to call his Mom and sisters. Judgmental ice dancer silence follows in his wake.  
  
"Are you a penguin or spaceman kind of guy?" asks Louis.  
  
Harry lowers himself onto Louis bed to sit. He winces, his muscles obviously stiff and overworked from Simon's brutal methods. "Hm?"  
  
Louis rummages in his closet. "That's really all I have to offer. Penguins or astronauts."  
  
Harry shrugs. "To be completely honest, I usually sleep naked."  
  
Louis freezes before turning to fix Harry with a look. "Not in my apartment you don't."  
  
"Penguins."  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"Lay some penguins on me, please," clarifies Harry, even as he's curling up into the blankets on Louis' bed.  
  
Louis surveys the scene a little sadly. "Where am I supposed to sleep?"  
  
Harry pats the spot in front of him on the bed.  
  
Louis hesitates for a beat. He will not be outfoxed by Harry Styles. Which is why he flings the pajamas at Harry's head before climbing gamely onto his bed. His, Louis', bed. Not Harry's.  
  
"Heeeeey," says Harry. Harry stands up, stretches elaborately, and removes his shirt. Louis doesn't dare stare at the expanse of bare skin, and the massive butterfly tattoo inked onto Harry's stomach. Instead he reclaims the entirety of his bed.  
  
"These penguins are skating," observes Harry, as he pulls on the bottoms. "Cute."  
  
"Well noted, Sherlock," remarks Louis.  
  
Harry huffs a little as he drops his clothes on the chair by Louis' bed. "I have also deduced that this was a cunning plan to get me out of your bed. Sharing is caring, Tomlinson."  
  
"I am cranky when I don't get a good night's sleep. And when I'm cranky, Simon is cranky. And when Simon is cranky, everybody is-"  
  
"I get it," whines Harry. "Are you going to make me sleep on the sofa with Niall while he snores?"  As if they've known each other for more than four days. As if they're friends.  
  
"Yes," says Louis simply. Which is when Harry launches a tickle attack, and reclaims a third - if not half - of Louis' bed.  
  
Louis considers it an unfair loss, given the sheer size of Harry's limbs.  
  
"I am allowing you to sleep here," concedes Louis at length.  
  
"Thanks, Lou," says Harry, his voice coloured with a smile.  
  
*  
  
On weekends, Simon grants his athletes a two hour sleep reprieve. Louis wakes up at his usual, weekday hour, and finds himself blanketed by long limbs and steady breathing against the back of his neck.  
  
Which is what prompts him to have a bit of a panic attack, and sends him directly to the cold floor of his bathroom.  
  
He's not quite awake, mind still turning slowly, and the blind fear is too overwhelming at this hour of the morning. Louis take deep, steadying breaths and the cool air seeps into his lungs, replacing the comforting warmth of Harry's body.  
  
After what seems like centuries, there's a knock on the door.  
  
"Louis?" asks Harry. He sounds puzzled. Worried, even. "Are you okay?"  
  
"No. Yeah. Go away."  
  
"What's wrong?"  
  
"Nothing."  
  
There's silence on the other side of the door. And then because Harry, like Zayn, clearly has no sense of boundaries, "I'm coming in." Louis really needs to keep better company.  
  
Harry joins him on the bathroom floor, his back against the bathtub, and his legs doubled over to fit in the limited space that Louis has left vacant.  
  
They sit in silence, Louis willing himself to keep breathing.  
  
"Why don't you like me?" asks Harry, at length.  
  
"You think I don't like you?"  
  
"I asked first."  
  
"I like you a lot more than I should."  
  
"Why shouldn't you like me?"  
  
Louis makes eye contact with Harry and irrationally, it gives him an anchor, steadies his breathing. "Are you really that stupid? You're the competition."  
  
Harry wrinkles his nose. "I'm your teammate. You and me, kid. And Niall."  
  
Louis shakes his head. "It doesn't work like that. At the end of the day, we're out there by ourselves. We can't all stand on the top of the podium as one big happy family."  
  
Harry reaches out and squeezes Louis' fingers. He takes his time turning over a thought. "That's strange, because last night was the first time since I moved here that I haven't felt alone."  
  
"Oh," says Louis.  
  
"No offense," says Harry, "But your attitude kind of sucks sometimes."  
  
Louis stiffens, but squeezes Harry's fingers back anyways. "One," he lists, using Harry's trapped fingers to count off his points. "Judgy, much? Two, it's worked for me so far."  
  
"Three," adds Harry. "I'm not even close to being as good as you."  
  
Louis rolls his eyes. "Yet. You will be. Simon doesn't take just anybody. And you've got buckets of charm. They'll love you."  
  
Louis sits up suddenly, and stares Harry down. Now that he's made it his business to care, he wants to know. "Why did you come back to skating anyways, what's this all about? I heard you were studying Herbology or something at university."  
  
Harry snorts. "Business," he corrects gently. "I was at UBC, not Hogwarts." He sighs deeply, pushing the hair off his forehead, and Louis feels as though Harry's probably lived twice as many lives as he has, despite being the younger of the two.  
  
"When I grew," starts Harry.  
  
"You mean when you couldn't land your jumps anymore," corrects Louis.  
  
"Yes, you shit," sniffs Harry. "When that happened, I didn't like skating much. It wasn't easy like it had been for me before. I wanted to do other things, but really I just wanted other things to be easy."  
  
"Oh," says Louis.  
  
Harry hesitates a bit before continuing, "It turns out that I don't love any of those other things like I love skating. It's taken a few years to figure out, but... here I am."  
  
"Oh."  
  
"Yeah, oh."  
  
Louis smiles, his mouth twisting into a tight line. "I'm glad you love skating. I'm glad you're doing something you love."  
  
Harry's gaze flickers across Louis' face. "Are you? Doing something you love?"  
  
Louis is at a loss for words. "Of course I am," he insists after a moment.  
  
Harry looks as if he's about to say something, but has a change of heart, and kicks at Louis' shin instead. "Can I make pancakes for breakfast?"  
  
Louis' face breaks into a grin that threatens to split his face. "Only if they have blueberries. Did you learn that at Hogwarts? Were you a double major in Baked Deliciousness?"  
  
Harry groans, and drags Louis into the kitchen where Niall and Zayn find them an hour later, having a pancake flipping contest. Louis wins, based on both sheer enthusiasm and technical proficiency.

**Author's Note:**

> Down the rabbit hole I go. Thanks for reading - hope you enjoy! xx


End file.
